Chiaroscuro
by Wander of Thought
Summary: Fate has a way of getting back at you. So when an Italian art thief accidentally runs into a Spanish security guard, things can only go from bad to worse. At least, that's how it seems - at first. Spamano, AU. [Rated T for language and possible violence]
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

* * *

The night was dark, but it was cool and clear. Everything shone like pearl under the moonlight, everything save a lone man clad in black, walking down a deserted street.

Behind him a sleek black car raced off into the distance, in the opposite direction. It made scarcely any sound. The man turned back with one, just one parting glance, until the car vanished into the distance, and then he was on his way.

At first sight there was nothing remarkable about him, save the fact that he was alone on a dark and rather dangerous street at night. But it soon became clear that he was there for a reason. He was not a tall man, but walked as though he were. The purpose and strength in his step suggested a certain youthfulness. His hands did not swing freely, but were shoved deep into the pockets of his black coat. Except for the soft crunch his shoes made on the gravelly road, he made not a sound, and as he passed under a lone streetlight his face was illuminated.

Piercing green eyes, rock-hard emeralds, squinted for just a moment in the sudden lack of darkness. His tanned skin seemed to glow, his brown hair was ruffled slightly by the wind, a lone curl escaping and falling in front of his face. Exasperatedly he blew it out of his eyes with the air of a man accustomed to yet unappreciative of small annoyances.

He made his first move when he turned the corner and found himself only several meters away from the tall pillared building, its lights mostly out. The golden windows winked at him, as though beckoning him closer. He did so, but not without caution. The Uffizi Gallery of Florence was no easy place to approach in the dead of night.

With a quick, fluid movement he drew the Beretta from its holster and waited, at the ready.

Not a being stirred within the Gallery.

After a long moment he emerged from the shadows and began a quick run towards the back entrance.

All was silent, eerily silent. The quiet unnerved him even though he had always acted in the dark, when everyone in their right mind was asleep or dawdling on the job. But he'd had the hunch there was something wrong.

Something other than himself.

With the key one of his colleagues had bribed out, he let himself in, quiet as a mouse. His eyes flicked immediately to the ceiling. A thin row of lights swerved around the corner, leading the way to, no doubt, the storage rooms and then the galleries. The security cameras were mounted, as usual. But no LED flickered from them; the system was down and the intruder knew this. That was why he had chosen tonight as the night.

Stealthily he made his way down the corridor, pistol in hand.

Because the surveillance had been cut off, there would definitely be more security guards around. The lights had told him this much. But he entered the first hall without anyone rushing out to intercept him, and gave himself a pat on the back.

From there the going became easier. He'd seen everything before, walked every inch of the museum that was open to the public. He knew exactly where to go, where a certain painting was displayed and watched over, just three doors down.

Madonna and her Child must already be waiting for him.

Propelled by an unknown force he reached Hall 7. One hall away from his destination, a small place dedicated to paintings by a certain Filippo Lippi.

And that was when it happened.

A voice from behind him.

"Stop where you are!"

Slowly, the would-be thief turned, pistol primed and ready to fire. He wasn't surprised to come face-to-face with another firearm resting in the gloved hand of a security guard.

He had only a split second to register the guard's appearance, but that split second seemed like a long one. Forest-green eyes, olive-toned skin. The pleasant features of a Spaniard. Rather nice to look at—what a pity he'd have to shoot...

"Hey, you're just a boy! What are you doing here?"

The young thief took insult and snarled.

"I'm not a boy. Get out of my way or I'll shoot you."

The pistol came up again, pressed against the guard's chest. But the Spaniard looked unfazed. A disarming grin.

Was that genuine curiosity?

It couldn't be.

"You must have wanted to look at the paintings. But the museum is closed now. _Lo siento_."

He couldn't be serious.

"I said. Get. Out. Of. My—"

A shrill wail pierced the air.

Both men turned at precisely the same moment as the sound filled the entire gallery. An alarm—an alarm! But the security system had been disabled.

And it was coming from Hall 8.

The quarrel now behind them, the two men, one with a sinking heart, raced as one to the source of the sharp noise. But they were too late. In the gallery of Lippi paintings, they found all the artwork in their places, except one.

_Madonna with Child and Two Angels._

Painted 1465.

Missing.

And in its place was a little siren, placed there by some unknown hand, still shrilling and filling the air with its ear-splitting racket.

On closer inspection, there was also a small crumpled slip of paper on the floor. The guard picked it up and opened it. There were small words, scrawled in pencil, that turned out to be Italian.

The now would-have-been thief read them.

_Bisogna saper afferrare l'occasione pei capelli. _

He cursed up a storm.

They could already hear the rumble of many footsteps—more security guards were already arriving. There was no question what would happen now.

The siren kept ringing.

* * *

_Author's Note: _Hi all! This is my first endeavor at multi-chaptered Spamano. I have rather a lot planned for this story, so I hope you enjoy! Please review? :3

_Bisogna saper afferrare l'occasione pei capelli - _Opportunity only knocks once. (Italian proverb)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, the rather attractive Spaniard, had worked as an Uffizi security guard for no less than five years. But not once in all those five years had he encountered a dilemma quite like this one: a young, suspicious-looking Italian hell-bent on proving he wasn't a thief. Even though everything was already stacked against him.

"But I _didn't _steal it, you stupid _bastardo!_ Didn't you see it was gone when we got there?" the man hissed furiously, in a low and very convincing tone of voice as he promptly fled the scene.

He wasn't able to run very far, however, for Antonio caught up and tackled him seconds later. Both of them went down, one with a cry of pain.

"What the fuck!?" the Italian shouted, flailing and kicking and otherwise trying his best to escape Antonio's grip. "_Let go of me!_"

"You're not going anywhere—oof!"

The young Italian had somehow flailed his way upright and delivered a heavy blow to the Spaniard's jaw. The latter grunted in pain and loosened his grip and, now free, the thief stood and resumed running in a panic.

"_Mierda,_" Antonio muttered, recovering himself in a moment and chasing after him at top speed. The young man had gotten to the storage rooms and must have found himself stuck, for outside had gathered a huge, likely unfriendly crowd, and behind them the footsteps of other security guards reverberated, sounding as though they were getting closer.

Upon seeing Antonio step closer, the thief raised his pistol.

Antonio advanced slowly on the Italian. "Just drop your gun and put up your hands. It's easier if you don't resist."

"Fuck no!" cried the other man, his eyes filled with anguish. His hold on the pistol faltered slightly, and he looked as though he might lower it any moment; if Antonio wasn't mistaken, he must still be a novice with such firearms.

He had his own pistol ready, however.

"Look," Antonio said in as calm and soothing a voice as he could muster. "If you didn't steal anything, you'll be all right. Don't use violence. It's not worth it and it will hurt _you _more than anyone else. Do you understand?"

"But I can't get caught," the Italian whispered. "I-I have a brother... and we've only got each other. He needs me to live. I can't leave him."

The sincerity in his eyes caught Antonio off guard, touched on something in his normally closed heart. A sudden rush of sympathy overcame him. And when he next opened his mouth it was to say something that he little knew would change things forever.

"...All right, there's a trapdoor in the corner, under those boxes." He moved to clear them away as he talked. "There's a secret passageway leading out of here, back to the city; and if you get out, you'll see a house with a lot of trees and bushes. That's mine. You can hide out back if you need to. I'll get there soon."

The Italian stared at him for a moment, perfectly still, pain still evident in his face. Then, hurriedly, he said,

"_Grazie. Grazie di cuore._"

And vanished down the trapdoor seconds later.

Antonio didn't stop and wonder, or even hope the young man might get out safely. Quickly he replaced the pile of boxes, left the storage rooms by another exit, and hastily made his way back to the scene of the crime, where a large group of authorities had already gathered.

He had just made things a thousand times harder for himself; he might well now have become someone's partner in crime. But Antonio found he didn't care. His life had been long and dull and meaningless enough, so what was a little excitement now and then?

There was no turning back, anyway. He'd made his decision. And he still had an alibi to stitch up. For a young Italian who, even if he _was _one of the most misguided men Antonio had ever met, still deserved a little chance at redemption.

* * *

_Several hours later_

* * *

It was 1 a.m. by the time the Spaniard staggered out of the museum and down the street, allowing his tired feet to take him home by instinct. Somehow, even at this early hour, the streets were clogged with dismayed, shouting, interested-looking people, all rushing in the opposite direction to the museum. Antonio pushed tiredly past them, saying nothing, his face showing nothing. At that moment he couldn't have cared less what happened there anymore.

There had been a long round of investigation, of course, and much marking of the site with red tape. There had even been reporters called to the scene, probably by some nosy passerby or concerned officer. And Antonio, being the unfortunate man assigned to watch Halls 7 through 9, had naturally come under question.

_Where were you at the time? Did you see anyone suspicious? Did you hear any suspicious sound or see anyone suspicious running away, in a suspicious manner? What made you leave when the security cameras couldn't detect anything suspicious?_

Suspicious, suspicious, suspicious. That was the only word they used nowadays. Perhaps they had meant for it to stick in the security guards' minds, so that they never forgot to watch out for _suspicious _things. But Antonio, although he'd managed to get the Italian off the hook, couldn't quite do the same for himself and so was _suspected._

Which meant he was _suspended _from work for several days while the investigations went on.

Antonio allowed himself a single melancholy sigh as he reached his block and walked quickly toward his house. He wanted nothing more than a good long sleep at the moment. He wanted to forget about everything that had happened that night.

But of course it was impossible to forget. He was instantly reminded, anyway, when he reached his front door and a shape materialized from the darkness of the bushes to greet him.

"Took you long enough," it whispered in his ear.

Antonio didn't reply, and opened the door to let himself in. He paused as he watched the Italian standing at the doorstep.

"I should really lock you out for the night," he said matter-of-factly.

The Italian scrutinized his face with an air of laid-back ease. Evidently his little wait out in the dampness of Antonio's garden had sobered him up, and any weakness from before had vanished.

"... Because you're a cold, heartless bastard?"

Antonio couldn't help a wry smile. "It's cold out. Get in here."

The Italian did so, and began removing his soggy coat.

"You've got a nice place," he remarked, glancing around at the snug little dwelling, the table by the kitchen set for one, the two armchairs by the fireplace, one of them looking like it hadn't been used in a long time. "Do you live here all by yourself?"

Antonio paused, finding it difficult to work up a happy expression.

"... Most of the time."

"Oh, I see." The Italian gave a nod as though he understood, his face carefully expressionless in the delicacy of the situation. "It must be lonely sometimes... By the way, I'm Lovino Vargas."

There followed a short round of introductions, and then Vargas coughed.

"Grazie again, for helping me."

"De nada," said Antonio, giving him a tired grin that he wasn't feeling. "We're both in this together now, anyway..." But the discontent on his face must have shown, because Vargas suddenly looked extremely uncomfortable.

"Did something happen back there?"

"Not much. They're checking things out like they usually do. I can't go back for a while, though, because I wasn't doing my duty." Antonio gave a short laugh at Vargas's surprised expression.

"... _Mi dispiace... _Things are pretty fucking messed up, aren't they?"

"It's all right, it's not your fault," replied Antonio, but he felt slightly better.

Who would've known thieves could have consciences... Then the most pressing question of the day returned to him. "But what _were _you doing there anyway?"

He hadn't expected Vargas's expression to darken defensively.

"I did _nothing_. I never stole any fucking painting, okay? I'm being framed and that's all you need to know. None of your fucking business."

He was definitely hiding something with those contradictory answers of his.

"Oh, it isn't my business? But I'll be looking after you, so I have a right to know," Antonio countered, and the Italian flushed angrily. It was rather pleasing to see, really.

"Who said I needed looking after?" he spluttered, his anger giving him an almost comical appearance—that made him appear even younger. "I'm nine-fucking-teen and a _man_, not a little baby!"

Nineteen.

_Nineteen. _He could have been going to school still, or working at some nice-paying job. But instead he was here, little more than a fugitive and resorting to sharing a house with a twenty-two-year-old Spaniard.

"I'm going to sleep now," Vargas announced abruptly, sounding as though he already owned the house, and tramped upstairs after being shown a room and being told to stay put for safety.

Antonio watched him until he vanished from sight, feeling even more confused and bewildered than before. The Italian was nineteen and a thief; nineteen and desperate; nineteen and almost alone in the world. And yet, despite all the hardships he must have gone through, there was something about him, something that had stubbornly remained, and Antonio had seen it that night. Perhaps underneath it all Vargas really was just an ordinary (or not so ordinary) young man.

Antonio told himself that he would soon find out.

* * *

**_Author's Notes:_**

**Whoa... 12 reviews!? For such a short little thing? Oh my gawd, you guys are wonderful! You really are! :')**

**This was actually rather hard to write, because it's not that lighthearted, but plot bunnies helped I guess. :3 Anyway, I'm really not sure how well this chapter turned out; I just hope Lovi and Antonio aren't OOC. Comments and constructive criticism are appreciated though! Thanks to everyone who's been giving this story attention! Ciao for now~!**

_**Translations:**_

**_Bastardo_ (Italian) - bastard**

**_Mierda_ (Spanish) - shit**

**_Grazie_ (Italian) - thank you**

**_Grazie di cuore_ (Italian) - thank you so much**

**_De nada_ (Spanish) - no problem/you're welcome**

**_Mi dispiace_ (Italian) - I'm sorry**


End file.
